Hearth Stone

by Lois Greiman

  He watched her, wondering. “Mother Redhawk was more diabolical than that.”

  She remained silent.

  He shifted his hips against the counter. “It was my job to feed the pigs.”

  “You had pigs?”

  “We had everything. Horses, rabbits, ducks. But the pigs …” He shook his head. “I am here to tell you that their legendary stench is not exaggerated. I hated feeding them. One night me and the boys went fishing.” He shrugged. “A friend of ours, Smokey, found a twelve-pack of Buds. Probably his father’s. We emptied that thing in ten minutes, tops. By the time I got home I had forgotten pigs even existed.” He chuckled. Good lord, his mother was a piece of work. “But it came back to me in the morning.”

  She waited, as if it were a life-or-death story.

  “She put them in our bedroom,” he said.

  “You shared a room?”

  He hadn’t thought that would be the surprising part of this particular tale. “With Tonk …” He shook his head, remembering. “He’d talk our ears off six days out of seven, but he didn’t say a word. Not till morning.”

  “When there were pigs in your room.”

  “Piglets. Nine of them. There was …” He paused. He wasn’t a swearing man, but the word excrement seemed wrong for the porcine species. “Feces everywhere. The walls, the blankets. My ears.”

  “You’re making this up,” she said.

  He chuckled, suddenly glad he wasn’t. “My imagination’s not that distorted.”

  Her lips curved. “She sounds like fun.”

  “That’s not exactly the word I would have used at the time. But I never neglected to feed the pigs again. Some days I still wake up in a panic, worried I’ve forgotten them.”

  She laughed a little. He took a sip of coffee and pretended the sound didn’t make him want to weep.

  “What about you?” He let the silence lie for a moment. “Tell me about your dad.”

  “Father?”

  “Was he fun?”

  “Sure.” Another lie. She wouldn’t have gotten away with anything in the Redhawk family. “But he was gone a lot. On business. He made certain I was in excellent hands, however.”

  “He didn’t remarry?”

  “No.” She stared at her fork as if longing to fiddle with it again. But her control was absolute. “Mother was … extraordinary. Irreplaceable.”

  “How so?”

  She shrugged, the slightest lift of trim, sharp-bladed shoulders. “Sophisticated. Intelligent. Talented. She was a ballerina when they met. With all the poise and class that implies. I’ve tried not to disappoint him.”

  “Disappoint him?”

  She laughed at herself. “I didn’t mean it like that. I had a privileged childhood. The best of care at home and at school.”

  “Which was where?”

  “I was tutored until twelve, after which I moved into the Ashville Academy.” She put her hands carefully in her lap. “It’s what Mother would have wanted.”

  He actually winced. The thought of her alone, motherless …

  “Sydney,” he said and took a step toward her, though honestly he had no idea what he intended, but it was a moot point for she rose abruptly to her feet.

  “I’m going to check on Courage,” she said, and pressing past him, hurried outside.

  Chapter 22

  “Does he drink?” Doc Miller’s voice was gruff as he gazed into the mustang’s stall. Courage moved restlessly against the far wall. They had discontinued her sedatives almost forty-eight hours before.

  “Some.” Sydney stood as straight as a cadet, voice steady, expression composed. Only the quick tap of her index finger against her thigh told the truth of her emotional state.

  Hunter had to resist pulling her into his arms, cradling her against his heart like a wounded child. And what the hell was that about?

  “Eat?” the old man asked.

  “No.” It had taken her a moment to force out the word. “Or very little.”

  Outside, the rain pattered like a paradiddle against the barn’s ancient roof.

  Doc turned toward her, expression hard. “But you want me to continue treating him.”

  She entwined her fingers, held them loosely in front of her. If she were any more controlled, she would come complete with an instruction book and a set of marionette strings. “If it’s a question of money …” she began, but the old vet glared her down.

  “It’s a question of morals,” he said and shambled sideways along the stall front for a better view. The mustang, made nervous by his nearness, snorted and twitched. “And maybe of being killed, while we’re at it.”

  “That’s just it, though,” Sydney said, voice suddenly animated. “She’s a fighter. A warrior. Shouldn’t we fight for her … with her?”

  Doc Miller glared for a second, then turned toward Hunter. “You ready for this?”

  Hunt glanced inside. The horse’s eyes were rimmed in white, her ears laid back in tacit warning. “Hard thing to get ready for,” he said.

  “Boy’s got a point. But at least she’s got the halter on this time. Let’s hope the line’s still in her vein.”

  Hope was pretty much all they had. That, Hunter’s brute strength, and Sydney’s newfound inability to give up.

  Forty-five minutes later the bandages had been changed and the necessary drugs administered.

  Sydney and Doc scrambled out of the stall while Hunter remained, still holding the halter and the twitch in his bear-like grip.

  “You clear?” he asked and glanced toward the door they had shut but not latched behind them.

  “Let ’im go,” Doc called.

  Hunter untwisted the twitch and turned the mare loose. She rose on her hind legs like a geyser. He scrambled backward, but not fast enough. Crashing into the wall behind her, Courage fell, then struggled to rise, legs scrambling with Hunter’s in the process. Half crawling, half sprinting, he spurted into the aisle, breath coming hard.

  Sydney slammed the door behind him. “Are you okay?” Her face was white with worry. If she wasn’t always as pale as a snowflake, he might have been flattered by her concern.

  “Ai,” he said and failed to notice the pair behind Sydney until Lily spoke.

  “Can we ride her now?”

  They turned as a unit. Vura stood behind them, holding her wide-eyed daughter by one hand.

  Doc snorted, then raised a hand. “I gotta go. Call me if you got any questions.”

  “Thank you,” Sydney said, but Hunter was already hurrying toward the newcomers. “You must not go near that horse, Lily.”

  “But you said—”

  “I said we would ride. But not that one. That one cannot be ridden.”

  “Even by you?”

  “Even by God Himself.”

  “Why?”

  He shook his head, straining to find an answer. “She needs to rest.”

  A hoof slammed against the wall, causing the barn to vibrate around them.

  The little girl’s expression was dubious. “She doesn’t sound real tired.”

  Good point, Hunter thought. In fact, she sounded like she was going to tear the building down around their heads.

  “She’s sick, Lily,” he said. “You must leave her be.”

  The girl’s eyes were as green and round as marbles. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She hurt her legs.”

  “What part of her legs?” There was a singsong melody to her new-morning voice. “Is it her hocks?”

  He glanced at Vura.

  “She’s been studying horses,” her mother said.

  “They have lots of joints in their legs. Especially their hind legs,” she lisped. “The coffin, the pastern, the fetlock, the hock, the stifle, the hip, and the sacro … the sacro …”

  “Iliac,” Vura finished for her.

  “The sacro lilac,” she said and lifted her arms toward Hunter.

  He told himself to turn away, but her eyes were wide with wonder, bright with
concern. Reaching down, he lifted her into his arms. She snuggled against his chest, ripping his heart on contact.

  “The hock is the largest,” she said.

  He nodded, ignored the sting in his eyes, the tightness of his throat. “Which is the smallest?”

  “I don’t know that,” she admitted solemnly. “But I bets my book says. It’s in our truck.”

  They left the barn together, Lily perched on his arm like a songbird, twittering away as he walked.

  “She seems very intelligent,” Sydney said and tried to put the trauma of the morning behind her.

  “Yes.” Vura’s smile lacked a bit of its usual effervescence. She turned toward Courage, as if forcing her thoughts in another direction. “What are her chances?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The horse.” She nodded toward the stall. “Will you ever be able to ride her?”

  The question almost made Sydney laugh … or cry. “No.”

  “But she’ll survive.”

  Sydney inhaled carefully, exhaled slowly. “Probably not.”

  “I’m sorry,” Vura said. Her brow rumpled with compassion.

  Sydney shook her head. “She’s just a stray that …” She couldn’t complete the sentence and cleared her throat instead. Outside the wind was driving the rain from the northwest. “It doesn’t look like we’ll be pulling up fence.”

  “Or roofing.”

  They stood side by side, watching the elements beat the earth. “Guess it’s inside work then.”

  They hurried toward the house together. Neither spoke. Hunter was at the stove already. Lily sat on the counter, hefty book opened across legs clothed in purple tights and frilly skirt. She didn’t so much as glance up when they walked in. A tiny dent of concentration was creased between her feathery eyebrows.

  “And they have two hundred and five bones. Thirty-four of them are in their heads. It seems like one big bone. Or maybe two. But it’s not. It’s thirty-four. Their backs are like ours, but different. Because they have a tail and we don’t.”

  “Lily honey,” Vura said, “why don’t you play hopscotch in the basement for a while?” She had chalked the boxes onto the crumbling concrete days before.

  “There are three bones just in their feet.”

  “Lily Belle,” Vura said, and lifting her daughter from the counter, caught her gaze from inches away. “Go play.”

  “I’m telling Hunk about the bones—”

  “Hunt.”

  “What?”

  “His name is Hunter. Or Hunt.”

  Lily nodded emphatically. “Hunk. I was explaining to him about a horse’s bones.”

  Vura sighed. “I know, but you can do that later.”

  “But I still haven’t told him about the ribs. There are thirty-six of them, but some of them aren’t—”

  “Lily …” Her mother’s voice held a soft warning.

  The child’s brows lowered slightly, her lips puckered, but she nodded. Vura set her down. She trotted away, stopped at the door, little skirt hiked up over plum-bright leggings. “Some of them are real and some of them are false.” She shrugged. “Even though they’re all real,” she explained, and turning away, disappeared into the adjoining room.

  The kitchen fell into silence.

  “I bet it’ll be a relief to get rid of this counter.” Vura’s tone was forcefully cheery.

  Hunter ignored both the tone and question. “Has she been diagnosed?”

  Sydney frowned. Silence beat a quick tattoo through the room.

  Vura inhaled quietly. “My father is very bright. And busy. Always has to be doing something with his mind, something with his hands. And I thought …” She shrugged, then glanced toward the door through which her daughter had disappeared. “I just thought she took after him.”

  “She probably does,” Hunter said. “Asperger’s wasn’t diagnosed much until fairly recently.”

  Sydney glanced from one to the other, feeling like an idiot. “She has Asperger’s syndrome?”

  “She’s extremely high-functioning.” Vura’s words were quick. “You don’t need to worry. She won’t cause any trouble. In fact, she’s very helpful. Always wants to—”

  “It will be fine,” Hunter said.

  Vura’s words slipped to a halt. She shifted her gaze to Sydney’s. “There’s no one in the area who specializes in kids with her condition, but I’ll find another day-care provider if that’s what you want.”

  Sydney waited a beat, certain Hunter would jump in, would assure them both that day care wasn’t necessary. That Lily could spend every waking minute with them until hell froze over. She glanced at him. He stood silent, watching her. Their gazes met. Was he holding his breath, she wondered, waiting for her to disappoint him? Or was he hoping, instead, that she would do the right thing? The kind thing. This once.

  “No.” Her answer was slow. She filled her lungs and held the air in her chest, wondering what had become of the woman she used to be. “As long as we can keep her safe, she can stay.”

  The world seemed to be frozen for a moment, but Vura broke the silence. “Okay, then. Okay.” She nodded, eyes unusually bright. “Well, I’d better get to work,” she said and turned rapidly away.

  “How about some breakfast first?” Sydney asked.

  “I don’t want to put you out.” Her words were barely audible from behind.

  Sydney laughed. “Not me. I couldn’t poach an egg to save my soul. Redhawk’s the cook.”

  “Oh? Well … I don’t want to put him out, either,” she said and hurried into the elements to retrieve her tools.

  The remainder of the day was spent inside. Hunter sanded the parlor’s hardwood floor while Vura hung the upstairs doors, and Sydney returned the freshly stained knotty pine trim to its rightful windows. She could, she discovered, hit the tiny finishing nails on the head two times out of ten.

  The rain stopped just before dusk. Sunlight slanted through the clouds in rainbow hues, painting the earth in Genesis colors. Sydney settled back on her heels and let the green of the landscape ease her tension. Still, it felt as if her arms had been used in a game of tug-of-war. She sighed and raised the hammer one more time.

  “If you make supper, I’ll finish up here.”

  Sydney glanced up. Redhawk filled the doorway, big shoulders, narrow hips, powerful thighs. She kept her gaze resolutely on his face. “This may be hard to believe,” she said, “but my aptitude for carpentry is somewhat superior to my skills as chef.”

  His lips curved with humor. “How are you as sous chef?”

  “Lily?” Vura’s voice rang through the house.

  No one answered.

  “Hey, Hunt, can you send Lil up with my thermos, please?”

  Redhawk’s brows dipped dramatically toward his dark-agate eyes. “Lily’s not here.”

  “What?” Vura’s footsteps were tapping down the stairs in a matter of seconds. “She made paper boats. I told her she could sail them in the kitchen sink if she got your permission.”

  “I haven’t seen her for most of an hour,” Hunter said. Sydney shook her head in tacit agreement.

  “That girl …” Perhaps Vura was trying to keep her tone light, but it already sounded worried. She turned and headed toward the door. “She must have gone back to the truck for her giddyup bag.”

  Hunter followed her outside, but Lily was nowhere in sight. Vura was already slamming the Chevy’s passenger door and glancing toward the creek.

  Swollen from spring rains and still-melting snows, it hustled along, as cold and swift as death.

  Vura ran in that direction even as Hunter jolted toward the barn. Sydney hurried after him. There were a hundred places a child could get hurt in there. The stairs were broken, the floorboards rotten. She rushed inside, but he held up a warning hand.

  Little Lily was slumped against Courage’s stall, brightly clad legs curled beneath her. The Encyclopedia of Horses was perched against her knees, but her head was drooping sideways, and her
downy lashes were soft against her apple-dumpling cheeks.

  Hunter exhaled shakily, then strode across the dirt floor to lift the tiny figure into his arms. She stirred, kaleidoscope eyes blinking. “Eight bones just in one knee,” she lisped and drowsily slipped her arms around his neck. “That’s …” She paused, fairy-bright face scrunched in thought. “Sixteen in both.”

  “Lily, you can’t—” he began, but stopped when his voice betrayed him and simply tightened his arms around her.

  “Are you okay, Hunk?”

  He was already striding outside. “Your mother was worried,” he told her.

  “I had to tell Courage about her bones,” she said and twirled her fingers in his hair. “She’s very brave. That’s what courage means. Brave. She was hurt real bad and now she’s alone, but she doesn’t whine. Mama says no one likes a whiner.” She was fully awake, from sleep to chatter in nine seconds flat.

  Retrieving her fallen book, Sydney followed them from the barn.

  “Horses are …” Lily was babbling like a brook, gaze set somewhere in the middle distance. “… gregors … gregurans … greg …”

  “Gregarious?” Hunter guessed.

  She nodded emphatically, little chin bobbing. “Gregarious. That means they don’t like to be alone. So I thought—”

  “Lily!” Vura’s voice cracked like a whip as she ran toward them. “Lily, where were you?”

  “Courage is lonely.”

  “Were you in the barn?”

  “She shouldn’t be alone,” Lily said.

  “I told you not to go outside!” Vura’s words were a jumble of anger. Of worry and fear and heart-stopping relief. “I told you—”

  “She is safe,” Hunter intoned.

  Vura glanced at him and paused, a dozen rampant emotions flashing through her eyes.

  “Be grateful,” he added, and delivering the child to her mother’s arms, he slipped into his truck and drove away.

  Chapter 23

  Sydney sat alone in the kitchen. The Genesis moment experienced earlier in the evening had passed. Another storm was blowing in. Or maybe it was a continuation of the weather that had haunted them most of the day. Rain pattered the new windows, rattled the doors. The ancient house groaned like a banshee. But Redhawk’s absence didn’t make it more frightening. He’d been gone since handing Lily back to her mother, but that was fine. Still, she couldn’t help wondering where he was. Not because she missed him or because the lightning that forked across the blue-velvet sky brought painful memories, memories that eased into the past when he was near. She didn’t miss him. But it was impossible to pretend that she didn’t pine for his cooking.